Dell knew it was going to be a rough day when his boss stormed into the repair shop.
Bob's face was as red and bulbous as a tomato. He looked like he was going to burst at any moment. Many things pissed off his corpulent employer, but only one offense brought that sort of anger out of him. Someone owed him money, and they weren't paying up. Dell was panicked for half a second. Did he forget to pay for one of his lunches?
His boss was quick to clarify who had offended him. "There's a darned vagrant sleeping in my parking lot!"
Dell nodded but pursed his thick lips. "Where?"
"In his damn car," Bob huffed. "You know, Dell, the nerve of some people! Don't we run a fairly priced, well-kept establishment? Who does he think he is, sleeping on my property without paying me money?"
"Ah, come on." Dell rocked back on his stool. "He's not takin' up a bed. Probably pulled in after we closed up shop."
Bob snorted once more. "He's tresspassin', Dell! I'll call the cops on him before I let him leave without paying his dues!"
Twenty-five dollars. That was the going rate at Bob's truck stop. At least, for one bed. Dell whistled low, managing to stifle a laugh. How petty was he that he was willing to throw a man in jail over some fee that small? Heck, court costs would be more than that.
Dell hopped off his seat. "Show me where he is. The least we can do is talk to the man."
With a small rumble, Bob turned towards the door. He swatted it aside with one thick hand. Dell followed his trail. The duo walked outside, past the rising scent of fresh bacon and eggs crackling in the kitchen. Drool collected in the corners of Dell's mouth. Maybe after he got this settled out, he'd pay up for breakfast. Usually, all he needed was coffee. Today felt different.
The mechanic's boss led him to the only other car in the parking lot besides his and Bob's. Dell recalled seeing it before but hadn't thought much of it. It was a run-down Buick. Its exterior was brown, rusted towards the bottom. A poor man's car. The plates on the vehicle were from Wyoming—Crook County. Not too far away, really. Not a journey that required a rest.
Bob growled at the back end of the car. "There he is."
A man was lying in the back seat of his vehicle, fingers curled and head resting on a beaten jacket. Dirty hair had escaped the hold of its fixative. It surrounded the man's head in clumped waves, a dark crown. Draw across his face was a thick slash. He should have had such a cut sewn shut. Yet, it was left exposed to the elements, raw and vulnerable.
The mechanic put his left hand on the rear driver side door. "Poor fella."
"Poor?" Bob snorted. "Probably some kind of criminal. I should be calling the cops."
Dell shook his head. "Sixty dollars in court costs for dodgin' a twenty-five-dollar fine. That's assumin' you'd win. It'll be a waste of time to put him through the ringer."
Bob's round face contracted again. He folded his arms, resting his elbows on his gut. "You've got a better plan?"
"Just give me a little bit," Dell replied. He smiled, perfect teeth even and bright. "I've got a way with people."
His boss gave a low grunt. With one last snort and a hock, Bob returned to the front building. As long as the old bull got his gold, he was happy. Dell sighed, then turned back to the rust-colored car. The weary traveler hadn't moved one inch. His long face was relaxed, wrinkles smoothed. He couldn't have been much older than Dell himself. Perhaps even about the same age. The mechanic wondered what would drive himself to such a predicament. Poverty? Exhaustion? Illness?
Dell tapped twice on the door with his right knuckle. The man inside didn't respond. The mechanic brought a hand to his side. If the strange visitor hadn't been awakened by his boss's ranting and raving, then Dell wasn't sure what would wake him up. He knocked one more time, gentle and steady. It wasn't as if he could leave this spot without cash in hand.
The traveler's eyelids squeezed. He pawed at his face, wincing as he grazed his scar. There was a thick layer of gunk on his narrow eyes. He rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself onto his elbows. Fingers reached for the window controls.
"What's the matter, wakin' a—" the traveler started, then stopped.
His long jaw went slack. Words halted behind lupine teeth. Memories burned in his brain. His eyes beaded with water, but he didn't blink. He stared with confusion and elation, blue irises lancing straight through Dell's brain. Maybe his boss had been right. Maybe the man sleeping in the car had been a madman after all.
Still, it was hardly congenial to wake him up and run away. "Sorry to disturb ya. See, my boss? He's pitchin' a fit 'bout you—"
"Dell," the traveler's voice cracked.
Cold shudders caught the Engineer's arms. He felt as if he was being held by a ghost. Something about the way that the traveler had said his name caused pain his in stomach. Not like indigestion or injury. Nostalgia. A burning sensation was building in the corners of his eyes. His left palm was slick, his right hand dead as ever.
Dell asked, "How'd ya know my name?"
The traveler's face flushed. He glanced down the mechanic's overalls, then over towards the truck stop. No, his name wasn't anywhere in sight. It wasn't a common name that he pulled out of a hat, either. It was deliberate knowledge. No trickster was the traveler. And yet, it struck Dell as an odd reaction. Why would someone be flustered about knowing another person's name?
"Phone book," the traveler tried to lie.
Dell didn't buy it. "Uh huh."
The stranger opened his mouth to speak. The first thing that escaped him was a low rumble. He closed it again, then pressed his hand to his stomach. Hunger. Dell drew a long breath through his nose. It was hardly right to interrogate a man before breakfast. He tapped on the car's door twice, then beckoned for the traveler to follow him. "C'mon. Let's get ya breakfast. Maybe if ya buy that, my boss will settle down."
"Boss?" the traveler questioned. "You work here?"
His queries were getting stranger. Never-the-less, Dell played along. "Yeah. Woke up in Rapid City 'bout a year ago. Couldn't remember much of anythin'. Just—well, I had to have been a mechanic or somethin' before. Couldn't prove it, though. Bob 'n Diane were the only ones willing to take a risk on me. So, I've been workin' for them." He paused for a moment, then smiled. "I think you'll like Diane. She's a little hard, but she's soft once ya get to know her. Ya know what I mean?"
The stranger nodded. "Yeah. Quite."
"'N what about you?" Dell asked. He pushed the truck stop's door open, the chimes jingling as he continued to talk. "Did ya try to catch a late-night peek at Mount Rushmore?"
"I…" The traveler halted.
Dell grimaced. He knew the man was concocting another lie. He'd seen that look a thousand times before. "Tell me straight, partner."
Now, the stranger's face screwed up. It was as if he was having his own nostalgia pains. He smiled, then lowered his head. "You'll think I'm mad. But…I've gotta get back to New Mexico."
"You're right. Absolutely suicidal," Dell agreed. He offered a booth to the stranger. The man nodded, then took a seat. Dell continued his ranting as he sat down, Bob's beady eyes giving him a dirty glare behind his back. "The things I've heard out of there? Makes my head hurt. Somethin' 'bout a maniac snatchin' up land? Mister, I tell you—if the United States Army can't drive him out, then I don't know what will. Certainly not one man in his beat-up car."
The traveler massaged the bridge of his nose. For a moment, the man seemed naked to Dell. He couldn't put his finger on it. It was like he was missing something personal, iconic. A hat. Sunglasses. Something. Not that his face wasn't enough to look at. Even the long slash and fine stubble felt natural. There was just something missing to the lean stranger.
Dell sighed, then took his words back. "I'm sorry, Mister. Look. You've got a long journey ahead, and you've barely started. Heck, you're even going in the wrong direction."
"Got off at the wrong exit," the traveler snickered. "Just figured it'd be best to wait until daylight to move again."
"Wise choice." Dell picked up a menu, then pushed it towards the stranger's face. "Now, c'mon. Order up."
The mechanic leaned back as the traveler flipped the menu over. It wasn't much—just one laminated sheet of paper. Dell looked towards Bob and Diane, wondering what they were thinking of the situation. Bob's face was still red-hot, but he was managing not to glare fiery holes of death into the traveler's skin. Diane was more amused than irritated. Her once-perfectly styled hair had curled in the heat of the kitchen. She sat with arms folded, watching the duo interact with great interest.
The truck-stop chef leaned over to her husband and giggled. "He's talkin' more with that one man than any girl I've seen him with at Joe's bar."
"Makes you wonder," Bob grunted.
Both the traveler and the mechanic's ears went red. Dell could hardly believe what he was hearing. Diane could be such a blabbermouth. Still, he didn't know why the stranger would be so flabbergasted. The man had completely hidden his face behind the laminated menu, trying his best not to make eye-contact with the mechanic. He didn't know whether that action was rude or pleasant.
The stranger managed to stammer out an order. "Coffee and toast, please."
Dell bobbed his head. "Sounds good. I'll have the same, Diane." He paused, then grinned. "You know what? Throw in some eggs and bacon. I'll pick up the extra."
"Sure thing," Diane smirked.
Now, the traveler was even more flustered. He ran a hand through his greasy hair. "Kind of ya."
"Just make sure to buy gas before you go," Dell offered. "We've got showers too. Might want to take one."
The stranger lifted an arm, then sniffed himself. "Cor. I'm not that ripe, am I?"
"Nah. But, ya look…well, yer hair…" Dell reached across the table. He grabbed a sticky tuft, then flopped it around. It could hardly move. The stranger lowered his gaze, embarrassed by his physical appearance. There was a short, suppressed snort from behind them. Bob just couldn't keep his opinions corked up.
"I'll do that, then," the traveler smiled.
When breakfast came, their chatter died down. Dell kept sitting with the stranger. At least, he knew Bob wouldn't jump him for the contents of his wallet at that rate. The traveler kept staring at Dell's right hand as he ate. Strange, considering that Dell was left-handed. He would stop chewing, shake his head, then continue eating. Dell found it a little irritating, but also interesting. Why was the man focusing on that, of all things?
Dell waited for the man to finish sipping his coffee before he asked, "Why do you keep looking at my hand, stranger?"
A fork clattered from the traveler's hand. He hadn't been expecting that question. He coughed into his left hand, then tried to speak. "I—I had a mate, yeah?"
'A mate' meant a lot to a foreigner like the traveler. Dell lifted an eyebrow. "When you say, 'mate'—"
"Good friend," the stranger interjected. "A really, really good friend." He sank into the booth, his long spine rolling against the pleather cushions. " He…he had this fake hand, yeah? Not sure what happened to the other one. But, I liked it, even if it was a bit weird at first."
Dell looked at his dead hand. "A fake hand, huh?"
The traveler shrunk back. "Didn't touch on a sore subject, did I?"
"No. It's just—" Dell couldn't believe what he was blabbing to this perfect stranger. He lifted his right hand, then flicked his fingers. "See, it moves. But I can't feel a darn thing in it. I figure, long as it keeps working, I don't have to see a doctor 'bout it."
Now, the stranger was silent. He gave the hand a glance, then grunted. The fingers on his right hand drummed the booth's table. He had a curious glint to his eyes. Wanting to investigate but remaining still. When nobody spoke out, he lifted his hand. Slowly, carefully, he moved towards Dell's dead hand. Rough fingertips brushed the surface of the numb hand. He pressed against Dell's digits, then flipped it over and looked at his fingernails.
"D'ya cut 'em?" the traveler asked. "Bruise 'em?"
Dell drew his head back. "No. I haven't. Not as long—"
His sentence trailed off, echoing in his head. Not since last year. Not since the incident. Why would his fingernails have stopped growing? All living tissue grew and shed, had feeling. Had he been that dense? Why hadn't he noticed something so simple? And here he was, supposed to be the analytical, observant kind.
Dell pulled his hand back. He dug under his nails, wondering if they would bleed. His skin changed color, just a little, but not much. It still squashed like normal skin. He kept bearing down pressure. Bob and Diane drew away, appalled at what he was doing. The traveler sat still. Shocked. Disturbed. Frightened, but not moving.
The mechanic popped his fingernail off.
There wasn't any blood. No tissue, no scarlet flesh, no trace of humanity. Lying beneath his pointer finger was cold, lifeless steel. He pulled against the skin of his finger, wriggling the front tip of a metallic digit out of the hole. It wasn't a hand of his design. No, his had been more robust, thicker. This was built to imitate a human hand. A deception from—
Searing pain blinded Dell. He glanced up, looking at the stranger sitting across from him. It was the face of a man obscured and buried by greasy, swirling agony. He saw the whole of the stranger, then a black memory. A languid shadow on the back of a massive machine. Mere garbage to a madman.
Hot, wet pain erupted in his sinuses. He gagged as warm blood ran down the back of his throat. Something was stuck back there, a scorching ball of melting metal. Dell pushed away from the table. His coffee mug rolled across his left hand and into his side of the booth. Even that scalding heat was nothing compared to the anguish in his head.
He scrambled from the table. His legs could hardly bear the burden of his body. There was one hand around his left arm, then another at his right. Bob carried his human side, the traveler his damaged hand. Dell bubbled a plea, but blood ran from his mouth. Something worse was threatening to come up from inside him.
"Get him to the can!" Bob snarled.
The world moved around him in still frames. The bathroom door. Blue. Toilet. One. Head down. Jaw open. Cold seat. Out. Out. Out. He made wretched noises, but only heard half of them. His face was roasting. He burned up all at once, his mind disappearing in a black snap.
A can of soda revived him.
The traveler had it pressed against his forehead. Dell nudged it aside as he came to. The toilet was empty beneath him. His illness had been flushed away. He rocked back, finding both Bob and Diane hovering just behind him. He tried smiling, but he knew his mouth was still foul. Diane passed him a clot of napkins, pulling away just as he took them. He wiped himself clean.
"Need a toothbrush?" Diane offered.
Dell nodded. "Thank ya kindly." His throat sounded like he was filled with sand.
Bob was eerily quiet. "It's on the house."
The sick mechanic rose to his knees. He turned to find the long face of an old friend. The traveler was trying to keep his stoic calm, but the corners of his lips were failing to keep his expression. He bent down. Squeezing his eyes shut, he reached for Dell's left hand. He dropped a small, metallic pearl in it. The mechanic studied the strange device, but not for long. He had something else that he wanted to see. He raised his mechanical hand, then patted at the traveler's chin. Screwed up wrinkles and piercing eyes were faltering.
"Mundy," the Engineer said.
The Sniper nodded. "Yeah, mate?"
The Engineer could hardly speak. "What happened to us?"
He knew it was something terrible. He had the faintest memories of tortures, nights of abuse, lone shells exploding and echoing in the vast deserts of the Southwest. He remembered screaming and dying—repeatedly—of pains much worse than this. He was not the same man he had been. No, that fighter had been behind lock and key, emaciated to the brink of its death. Now he was awake, free, staring at the pale face of another prisoner, one with his own terrible scars.
The Sniper said nothing. He reached for the Engineer's shoulders. The tall man leaned over him, arched over a broken spirit. The Engineer could hardly react. Wild memories were flooding back, nights of drinking and horseplay and just being happy. There was a reason he'd tolerated past pains so well. There had been such a mild salve to heal them. He sank into the Sniper's grasp, that same warmth returning again.
They were fighters, true men, and they did not cry. All the same, the left corners of their shirt collars became hot and damp.
Author's Note
I've been…struggling. To be honest, I don't know what the point of continuing this story is after the August 2013 TF2 comic. It's a bit jossed.
Ah, well. At least I wrote this part.